Take Your Leave
by darthsydious
Summary: Victorian!Lock. Molly is stubborn, but Sherlock always lets her make her own decisions. After he and several others have sent several hints of course.


The familiar scent of good cologne and tobacco greeted her first before a pair of arms slipped around her waist.

"You know you are terribly attractive when you're elbow-deep in a chest cavity."

"Sherlock," the smile she tried so desperately to force down overtook her features. "You mustn't tease, especially not in front of the likes of poor Mrs. Danvers. The poor old thing died of a heart attack all alone in her kitchen, no family to speak of, not even distant relations."

"Hmm?" His interest piqued.

"I've put aside a few organs for you, thanks to that wonderful brother of yours, no one should know the difference if she's got bags of sand in her or the organs she came in with."

" _You_ are a _delight_ ," he pressed her cheek, hands coming to rest on her belly. "Now, my dear woman, what do you say you close up Mrs. Danvers, and we go home, where you ought to be-" she jerked away from him, eyes flashing. "In your condition!" He finished as she rolled her eyes, huffing.

"I am perfectly fine, plenty of ladies 'in my condition' go to work every day!"

"Yes, and look where it leads them, swollen ankles, varicose veins and fatigue, sometimes even bringing on early labor. Watson is most persistent you take your leave. Stamford has been willing to arrange it since we gave him the news, and Mycroft, if you would believe it, has asked me several times if we would allow him to loan us one of his motor cars. I told him I should rather drink wasps, but I expect he'll have his driver around in-" he pulled his watch out, checking the time. "Twenty minutes or so."

"Sherlock, I've got the entire day left to finish, and I still have Mrs. Danvers to put away!"

"She looks rather finished to me," Sherlock eyed the corpse.

"Don't be wicked." He drew her close again, her back pressed against him.

"I am always wicked," he murmured low.

"You are not," she lifted her head, turning to kiss his cheek. She sighed heavily, looking at the corpse, at her husband, and her belly, currently covered by a smock, blocking her view of her shoes. "I expect I've been rather silly, haven't I?"

"Only a little," Sherlock promised. "Your work is rather diverting."

"I will be able to come back, once the baby comes, won't I?" she asked softly.

"I shouldn't hear of it any other way. Mrs. Hudson should love to help take care of the baby." Molly quirked an eyebrow at that.

"She's our housekeeper, not our nanny."

"Hm." Chin over her shoulder, he swayed gently, soothing circles over her wide belly. "Anyway your position in the mortuary is quite secure, even if Stamford refused; Mycroft would pull strings for you."

"I don't want people to pull strings for me, I want to earn the position the same as any man would have to."

"Then I am certain Stamford would hold it for you."

"Do you think he would?" She turned to face him, careful to keep the messy front of her smock away from his clean clothes.

"Why shouldn't he?" Sherlock asked, baffled. "You are a marvelous pathologist, the best Barts has had in ages. I imagine he'd be quite pleased, I daresay relieved to let you take a short holiday until you're properly on your feet and retain your skills than go through the hell of letting you go permanently and having to find one of your caliber all over again."

"I suppose," she agreed at last. A long moment passed before she turned back to the corpse, picking up her tools. Sherlock said nothing; he waited for her to come to her own conclusions, as he had learned long ago to do. "Let me just close up Mrs. Danvers, put her in her cubby, and I'll go talk to Stamford."

"Thank you." He nodded his thanks, retreating to the other end of the room to sit and wait.

To be fair, Molly had been thinking on taking a rest from Barts, at least until the baby was born. Pride bore her through the months, until now, six months and waddling, and baby continually getting bigger and kicking more often, she had realized staying until a month before she was due would be ludicrous. How on earth could she get anything done if she couldn't reach the tables?

Mrs. Danvers was finally cleaned up and covered in a sheet. Sherlock was on his feet as soon as she'd covered the deceased woman and unlocked the brakes on the gurney.

"I'll do that," he said quickly. "I'm afraid I must insist. Watson would have my head if he saw."

"I should think you would fear Mary's wrath more than John's," Molly answered teasingly, letting him take the corpse.

Once in her coat, having promised Sherlock she was wrapped up well enough, they made their way upstairs to Doctor Stamford's office, Molly quietly informing Stamford she would return in the Spring. He looked confused, and Molly couldn't fathom why.

"Yes I know," he said, befuddled. "Mr. Holmes sent over a list of temporary replacements until you come back, that brother of your husband's has been terribly helpful."

When Molly returned to Sherlock, he shifted from foot to foot, appearing quite guilty.

"I told him not to send the list until tomorrow." She sighed heavily.

"It doesn't matter. I expect he's only trying to help. I can be rather stubborn at times." Her smile was weary as she took her husband's arm. "Will you take us home please?" He bent, pressing a gentle kiss to her mouth.

"With pleasure, Mrs. Holmes."


End file.
